Tangled Webs
by Tom's Mum
Summary: Set at the start of Series 3. Richard attends a reunion of old university friends ...
1. Chapter 1

This is a collection of episodes and scenes which I have had in my mind for some time, loosely woven into a story – so apologies for the distinct lack of overall coherence!

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><p>On what had been the worst day of her life, Camille Bordey stumbled blindly into her apartment, automatically dropping the keys into the little container that stood in the hall, and – unable to walk any further – leaned her back against the door. Exhausted, dazed and numb, she finally had to face the truth: he was dead. For the past hours, ever since the phone call had come, she had kept busy, never resting, never giving herself time to think about what had actually happened, but now the darkness closed in on her remorselessly and she could no longer push away the terrible images that she knew would haunt her for as long as she lived. She slid slowly down the back of the door. Her body shuddering violently, she buried her face in her knees and sobbed.<p>

_Ten hours earlier_

There had been nothing, really, to mark the day as anything out of the ordinary, except that Richard had not come in to work. Some old university friends had turned up on the island and he was going to spend the day with them. They joked about it in the station – he was not after all the sort of man who enjoyed social occasions, and they knew he was not looking forward to it. Dwayne even suggested they should pretend there was an emergency and go and rescue him. _If only they had, she thought bitterly. _

She was busy writing up a report of an interview she had just conducted when the call came. She was vaguely conscious of Fidel picking up the phone but looked up sharply at the violence of the young sergeant's _"No! Are you sure?"_ then "We'll be right there!" Dwayne also swung round, the two of them staring intently at Fidel, who looked as if he been struck by a thunderbolt.

"What is it, Fidel?"

The young man made a visible effort to pull himself together. "That was Angela, one of the reunion party. She was hysterical. She said … she said the Chief has been murdered!"

Camille was seized by an irresistible urge to laugh. Of course Richard couldn't be murdered – he was the one who _solved _murders. She had been with him only last night and he would be back in the station later on in the day. But staring at Fidel's shocked face she was suddenly gripped by a terrible, icy fear. She snap-pointed.

"Keys! I'll drive. Come on!"

She drove like a maniac. People scattered in front of them. It was a miracle the roads were empty or they would surely have come to grief. As they climbed the hill that led to the rented villa, no-one spoke. "It must be a mistake, right?" Dwayne had said and they had all rushed to agree. But how could anyone make that sort of mistake? Silence, fear and dread enveloped them all.

It was a pretty villa, set high up on the hillside with spectacular views of the bay, but none of them appreciated it, as they rushed through the lounge and out onto the patio. They barely noticed the four members of the reunion party sitting in a row on the sofa, one crying noisily into her handkerchief. They barely saw the flashing light of the ambulance which had already arrived. They were totally transfixed by the sight that greeted them.

It wasn't a mistake. DI Richard Poole lay in a low chair covered in blood and with what looked like the handle of a knife protruding very obviously from his chest. There could be little doubt that he was dead – no-one could have survived an injury like that.

Camille gave a terrible cry and ran forward, only to be caught and restrained by Dwayne. Her legs buckled and she sank to the ground. The older man put his arm round her and did his best to comfort her, but the tears flowed unchecked. Fidel edged forward, staring in frozen horror at the man who had been his mentor, the man who he respected more than almost anyone. Then, as the paramedics moved in, he remembered his training, pulled out his camera and started to record the scene before the body was removed and transferred to the waiting ambulance.

The three detectives stood silently in total shock and disbelief for several minutes as the wailing siren of the ambulance disappeared into the distance. The two younger members of the team seemed almost in a trance, so Dwayne thought he had better take charge.

"Right, Sarge. If you want to interview the witnesses, I'll start a fingertip search of the patio. We've got to get the bastard who did this."

Camille snapped back into action. "Yes, thank you, Dwayne. Fidel and I will interview the reunion party."

"Angela said it must have been an intruder" offered Fidel.

"Yes, well, looking at the steep drop from the patio I think that's unlikely" said Camille, "it's much more likely to have been one of those four."

They spent the next two hours interviewing each member of the party separately. It seemed that the murder weapon was an ice-pick, which they had all been using in the lounge. _Well, that definitely ruled out the intruder theory, thought Camille._ They all maintained that Richard had been alive and well throughout the game of charades they had been playing and they were all acting as each other's alibi.

The search of the patio had yielded nothing interesting, apart from a copy of _Le rouge et le noir_ which had been found at Richard's feet. Sasha claimed Richard had just bought it and had asked her if she knew it. But the team knew full well that Richard didn't speak French, so it was puzzling to say the least that he should have bought a copy of a classic French novel.

When there was nothing more to be achieved at the villa they resolved to treat the beach shack as a secondary murder scene and to carry out a search of that property as well.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Camille?" Dwayne asked gently, as they drew up in the Defender. "Fidel and I can manage on our own."

"I'll be fine", she replied shortly and pushed open the door.

She had been there dozens of times before of course but never in circumstances like these. She had never before had to examine the contents of his wardrobe: the suits hanging neatly on the rails, the shoes shining with polish, the pile of shirts laundered, pressed and folded, the carefully arranged underwear drawer. There were few really personal items – just Lucy the telescope (she could hear his voice reminding her reproachfully that it was a _precision optical instrument_) and a large collection of books. But no sign of any sudden interest in French literature – and, she reflected – even if he had taken an unexpected liking to Stendhal he would have bought a translation. There was no diary, no letters, nothing. He had been a very private man and whatever secrets Richard Poole had had, he had taken them to the grave with him.

Everything was spotless, of course, and completely, obsessively, tidy. Not a grain of sand on the floor. Everything here just shouted Richard– this was how he was. She thought with a grimace of the organised chaos of her own apartment and reflected bitterly that as people they could not really have been more different.

And yet she had loved him. She knew it now, now that it was too late. How could she not have realised? When he had returned briefly to England a couple of months earlier, she had been afraid that he would not come back. She had never thought to ask herself why that mattered so much to her – she just knew that she missed him when he wasn't there. It had taken today's shattering events to force her to acknowledge the strength of the feelings that had been slowing growing within her. And now, she thought sadly, her eyes brimming over once more, she would never have the opportunity to tell him how much he had meant to her.

"You OK, Sarge?" asked a concerned Dwayne. "I don't think there's anything here to worry us, better get back to the station?"

She nodded mutely and they climbed back into the Defender and made their way soberly back to the centre of Honoré. Word was spreading about the Inspector's grisly end and as they made their way to the station they were besieged by crowds of the anxious, the angry or the plain curious. Dwayne dealt deftly with them all, batting away the enquiries on the grounds that it was early days yet. It was surprising, given Richard's reputation for unsociability and grumpiness, that so many people seemed genuinely shocked and sad to hear of his passing. Camille supposed that they did at least appreciate what a brilliant detective he had been. Of course, he had been so much more, but only she really knew that.

Wearily they climbed the stairs and slumped into their chairs. Everyone tried to avoid looking at Richard's empty chair and desk. It was as neat and tidy as if he had known when he left last night that he would not be coming back. Camille strode resolutely to the whiteboard and with a sigh pinned up a photograph of the late Inspector, looking his typical serious self, and Fidel hastily printed off photographs of the four suspects.

"We must try to go about this investigation as he would have done. He taught us a lot, and we must now put it into practice. Dwayne – background checks on the reunion party, please. You'll need to contact the UK police for their help."

"I'm on it, Sarge."

"Fidel, go through Richard's phone records – see if he spoke to anyone unusual in the last few days. And check his bank account for any odd transactions. And then chase up forensics and the autopsy report – not that I expect that will reveal anything that wasn't already obvious."

"Will do."

"And I'll go through his computer, check his email, see if there are any clues."

"Very good, Detective Sergeant" rumbled a voice from the doorway. "I see you have it all covered." The Commissioner nodded to Dwayne and Fidel, went up to Camille and squeezed her arm sympathetically. "It is a very difficult and tragic time, but I am sure the late Inspector would want you to continue with your duties. He was very proud of his team."

Fidel stared hard at the ground and Camille thought he was on the brink of tears. "He was a good man, Sir, a very good man."

"Yes, indeed, and a great loss to us all. I have just had the distressing task of informing his parents of what has occurred. They have requested that his body be flown back to England once all the formalities have been completed."

_So I don't even have the chance to go to his funeral._

"Thank you, Sir. We believe that one of the reunion party is the murderer but of course we will need some time to complete our investigations."

"Well, let me know if there is anything you need." And with that the Commissioner took his leave.

By then it was late afternoon. Dwayne and Fidel hit the phones, Camille began to examine Richard's computer. The hours passed. It grew dark but still they continued. Late in the evening Camille called for a catch up session. Dwayne reported on what he had managed to glean so far about the four suspects. There would be much more information in the morning but so far he had found nothing suspicious. Fidel had been promised a preliminary forensics report in the morning.

"And I've examined the Chief's phone records for the past couple of weeks. There's nothing out of the ordinary. A call to his parents, several to the Commissioner, the rest to us. What about his computer?"

Camille shook her head. "As far as I can see there are no hidden files – nothing that you wouldn't expect to be there. I've checked all his emails for the last couple of months and apart from one from Angela about the reunion they all relate to aspects of police work. And as you know, we haven't been working on any serious cases recently, so it's not likely to be work-related. And anyway, I don't see how anyone apart from those four could have got hold of the ice pick." She sighed from utter exhaustion.

"I think we should call it a day, Sarge, it's getting late, we're all tired and upset and perhaps we'll be able to think more clearly in the morning."

She agreed reluctantly. Dwayne was right of course, but she really didn't want to go home. She didn't want to face the demons that she knew were waiting for her once she stopped working. Dwayne walked her home. He seemed to understand when she didn't invite him in, and gave her a big wordless hug. What, after all, was there to say?

So here she now was, sitting on the floor with winter in her heart and her body racked with the choking, uncontrollable sobs that she had been holding back for so long. How long she was there she didn't know but eventually, when she found she could cry no more, she heaved herself upright and staggered into the kitchen. She had eaten nothing since breakfast but the very thought of food made her retch. Drink, however, was another matter. She uncorked a bottle of red wine and shakily poured herself a large glass. She gulped it straight down and quickly poured another. It didn't make her feel any better but at least it numbed the pain a little. Before she realised it, the bottle was empty and she was feeling distinctly light-headed. She stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed fully dressed. The other side of the bed, pristine and white, seemed to mock her – and the realisation that she would never now share it with the man of her choice brought back the tears. She buried her face in the pillow, convinced that she would not sleep that night, but sheer bodily exhaustion got the better of her overwrought mind and before long she sank into heavy slumber.

She woke to sunlight pouring heartlessly through the windows that she had forgotten to shutter. Camille opened her eyes gingerly and groaned. Her mouth was parched and her head throbbed. The memory of the previous day flooded over her and she stuffed her fists into her eyes, unwilling to believe that it had not all been a terrible nightmare. Her phone beeped to indicate a text message. Groggily she picked it up. There were eight messages, all from her mother, worried that she had not been answering her phone. She sighed. She loved her mother dearly but they had not seen eye to eye over Richard and she really couldn't face talking to her at the moment. _I'm OK, speak later_ she texted.

She checked her watch and was horrified to see how late it was. She knew she should get up and go to work but part of her thought simply _what for? _Part of her wanted to bury her head under the pillow and never get up again – ever. But the detective in her took over. More than anything, she wanted to catch the person who had killed the man she loved. With a concerted effort she heaved herself off the bed, steadying herself against the dressing table, and made her way cautiously to the bathroom. She really was quite hung over. She caught sight of herself in the mirror: huge rings around bleary red eyes, cheeks streaked with make-up which had run, hair a tangled mess. Well so what. Once she would have been horrified at her appearance but today it just didn't matter. She stood for a long time under the shower, letting the hot water run over and over her body, until she felt sufficiently refreshed to dress. She quickly pulled on some shorts and a top, stuffed her feet into her shoes, gulped down a cup of black coffee and threw her bag over her head. She was as ready as she could be in the circumstances to face the world.

Taking a deep breath Camille opened the front door and made to stride out. She nearly fell in her attempt to avoid tripping over the flowers that lay on the top step. _From maman_, she thought. She picked them up. They were white orchids, obviously picked wild and tied with an odd bit of ribbon. There was a touristy postcard underneath. She turned it over and stared and stared at the message. _Things are not always as they seem, but mum's the word._ No signature, but then she didn't need one. There was absolutely no mistaking that handwriting. She stood transfixed, her mind a tumult of seething and conflicting emotions. It couldn't be. He was dead. But it was.


	2. Chapter 2 - Puzzles

Many thanks for all the kind comments!

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><p>How long she stood there staring at the postcard she never knew. She was jolted out of her trance-like state by a neighbour, calling across the road to say how sorry she was to hear about the Inspector. Rapidly trying to unscramble her brain, Camille managed to ask:<p>

"Did you by any chance see who left these flowers? It doesn't say who they're from."

"No, sorry, dear. They were there when I pulled my curtains and looked across the road at about 6 this morning. That's all I can tell you."

She tried her other neighbours but with no success; no-one had seen anything. She looked closely at the message again. It was definitely Richard's neat handwriting – or else someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to copy it. But why would they? Why would anyone be so cruel? And how many people knew that he had given her white orchids when Aimée died?

Camille was a very intelligent woman, but today her brain felt addled and slow. _Mum's the word_ she read again. What had _maman_ to do with it? She would never play such an unkind trick on her beloved daughter. It must be one of those strange idiomatic English expressions that she had never heard of. And over and over she kept asking herself: _how could it be Richard? _He was dead, she had seen his body slumped in the chair, head lolling to one side. She had seen the blade sticking out of his chest. She had seen the blood. And yet how could it _not_ be Richard?

She quickly put the flowers in a vase, stuffed the postcard into her bag and finally set off for work.

At the station, Fidel and Dwayne were quietly going about their business. It was as if a pall hung over the place. For once, there was no laughter, no joking. The results of the post-mortem were in and the preliminary forensics report; both were exactly as expected. More background details of the four suspects had also arrived overnight, but again they had drawn a blank. When Camille finally arrived, they updated her on their investigations.

"There just don't seem to be any leads" said Fidel despondently. "Why would anyone want to kill the Chief?"

"And why _there_?" added Dwayne.

"The book _has _to be important. Why on earth would Richard buy a book in a language he didn't understand and then take it to a reunion with his old university friends? It just doesn't make sense."

"So where do we go from here?"

"Keep looking. Check everything – records, bank statements, _everything."_

"OK, Sarge."

"Oh, and Dwayne …" she asked as casually as she could muster, "what does _mum's the word_ mean?"

"It means keep quiet, it's a secret. Why?"

"Oh nothing, I just saw it written somewhere and wondered what it meant."

Well now she knew. If the message _was _from Richard, then she was clearly not meant to share it with anyone else.

It was crazy. She _knew_ he was dead but she just had to make sure. Leaving the boys to their tasks, she made some excuse and slipped out of the station. She drove straight to the hospital and made her way to the morgue. She had been there many times before in the course of her work, naturally, but it still made her shiver every time she saw a body laid out on the marble table or brought out of one the big drawers. Still, if she saw Richard there and felt the coldness of the morgue in his body, she would know for sure that she had lost him.

"Hello, Camille" said the morgue attendant, "can I help you?"

"Oh hello, Patrick, it's just that … well, you know … the … the Inspector was brought here yesterday and I wondered if I … if I could just see the body."

"What a terrible tragedy, Camille, he was such a good detective. I was so sorry to hear the news. Yes, I believe he _was_ brought here yesterday, but I wasn't on duty. By the time I came in this morning the post mortem had already been done and the body had been collected by the undertaker."

"That was quick! Well, thanks, Patrick, I'll go to the undertakers."

She walked quickly out of the hospital and made her way to the undertakers, which was just around the corner. The bell jangled as she opened the door and a middle aged man, soberly dressed, came out to greet her. She asked if she could see the body of Richard Poole.

"I'm a work colleague, you see, and I understand the funeral will be held in England, so I just want a chance to say goodbye."

The man hemmed and scratched his head. "Well, I'm afraid that's not going to be possible, miss. You see, unfortunately the coffin has now been sealed."

"Sealed?"

"Yes, well, we were informed that the body was to be transported to the family in England, so we prepared it straight away, and we're just awaiting instructions. He's in here."

And the man led the way to a small chapel, where a simple coffin rested on a bier. A tasteful arrangement of flowers decorated the top.

"I'll leave you for a few minutes."

"Thank you."

She walked slowly round the coffin, running her hand along the smooth wood. A card on the flowers read _From the Saint-Marie Police Department._ The Commissioner, no doubt.

She laid her cheek against the bleached wood. "Are you in there, Richard?" she whispered, although there was no-one to overhear. "If you are, then know that I will always love you." She voice caught and she could not go on. She remained for a few minutes with her head pressed to the coffin, then straightened herself, dried her eyes and left, no further forward than when she set out. Her brain racing, she returned to the hospital.

"Could I please speak to the pathologist who carried out the post mortem on Inspector Richard Poole?"

The receptionist clicked several times on her screen. "That will have been Dr Delaney. He was acting as relief cover yesterday, but he left again this morning."

"Where did he come from?"

"I'm sorry but it doesn't say. There is a pool of relief consultants and pathologists shared by a lot of islands in the Caribbean. They come and go very quickly. I haven't seen Dr Delaney before."

"Do you not have any contact details for him? I'm Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey from the Saint-Marie Police."

"Yes, I can give you his mobile number." The receptionist scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Camille, who stowed it carefully in her bag.

"And I'd like to interview the ambulance crew who attended the scene, please."

Ten minutes later two harassed-looking paramedics were ushered into the side room where she was waiting. She asked them to describe exactly what happened once they arrived at the scene of the murder.

"Well, the doctor was already there when we arrived and had certified the victim as dead."

"Wait a minute, what doctor?"

The two men looked at each other helplessly. "I don't know who he was, not one I've seen before. Perhaps he had come from Guadeloupe? Anyway we got the victim into a body bag and put him in the back of the ambulance. The doctor said he would travel with the body, so we both sat up front. When we got to the hospital the doctor supervised the transfer of the body onto a trolley and said he would accompany it to the morgue, so we went back to work."

It was clear that the men knew nothing more, so she thanked them and walked outside to call the pathologist. His phone was switched off, so she made her way back to the station, resolving to try again later.

Back at the station, Dwayne and Fidel had completed all the investigations and background checks. Nothing of significance had emerged. Three of the suspects were well off – two extremely so. The fourth had not done so well, and it transpired that he had been sent down from university for cheating – and it would appear that Richard had informed on him. That might possibly constitute a motive for murder – and it was the only one they had at the moment – but why would Roger wait more than 20 years to take his revenge? Camille was sure they were missing something and was convinced it was to do with the book, but they really did seem to have hit a brick wall in their enquiries.

The discussions were interrupted by the arrival once more of the Commissioner. _What does he want now? _thought Camille with rising exasperation. Could they not be left alone to get on with their investigations?

"I thought you might need a little help." Selwyn Patterson smiled urbanely and waved in the direction of a tall, gangly man with floppy fair hair who was struggling up the steps with his luggage, dropping items with every step. They stared at the Commissioner in a mixture of shock and horror as he introduced Detective Inspector Humphrey Goodman.

Trying to hide their dismay, Dwayne and Fidel made some semblance of welcome but Camille swung sharply on her heel and stalked back indoors. Of course, if they had stopped to think about it, it was inevitable that the Met would send someone to replace Richard. But so soon? It was tactless in the extreme, she felt. Just let him try and take over Richard's desk, just let him try … But the new DI, conscious of three pairs of eyes boring into him intently as he made his way down the room, suddenly changed course and opted for a different desk. The room let out a collective sigh of relief, and Camille grudgingly gave him credit for a certain degree of sensitivity, at least. If she was totally honest, it was unlikely that Richard would have picked up the same vibes in the same circumstances, at least when he first arrived.

And so began the team's relationship with Humphrey Goodman. It was clear from the very beginning that he was what the French call _sympathique_ – a genuinely nice and caring person who did his best to fit into very strange surroundings. He was also a total nightmare: falling out of windows, knocking things over, tripping over wires and generally leaving chaos strewn in his wake. And he was incredibly, irritatingly disorganised, scribbling notes on old napkins or pieces of paper. A total contrast, in fact, to what had gone before.

Dwayne was greatly amused by his antics and quickly accepted him. Fidel was more reticent; somehow it seemed disloyal to Richard to bond with his new boss. And Camille resented him totally. Partly because he wasn't Richard and partly because she felt the team should have been given the opportunity of solving the crime by themselves. _Didn't they think we were good enough? We don't need a stranger, who never knew or cared about Richard. _

But of course they _did_ need help and, as Humphrey had promised, he turned out to be a good detective. The arrival of Richard's university diary was the key. It made painful but compulsive reading; she was stunned to learn of his unfulfilled love for Sasha – she had always believed he had had no personal life at all. She thought of the woman at the villa and wondered exactly what the attraction had been; Sasha seemed to her rather cold and surprisingly undistraught about the death of a man who had once been her best friend. Angela was a different kettle of fish, of course – she was clearly still carrying something of a torch for Richard. It seemed there had been quite a lot more to the good Inspector than Camille had thought.

But then Humphrey had made the breakthrough and, as she had known all along, the book was the missing element. It was the lack of recognition of a work that had supposedly been the subject of her dissertation that had finally convinced Richard that Sasha was not Sasha but her sister and had led to his murder. "Sasha" and her husband were duly arrested, the case was closed, the coffin was returned to the UK and by mutual consent Humphrey was installed at Richard's old desk.

The days passed and turned into weeks. The team gradually got used to working with Humphrey, though Richard was frequently mentioned and never forgotten. DI Goodman was far too good-natured to complain but he must have grown tired of sentences which started _The Chief always said … _or _Richard would have …_ They worked on a number of cases together, and Camille came to admire the acute brain that lay beneath the shambolic exterior. She tried to atone for her earlier churlish behaviour, showing him the sights of the island (just as she had with Richard, although Humphrey was a good deal more enthusiastic about life in the Caribbean), and taking him for dinner at La Kaz.

Catherine thoroughly approved, of course. She found him charming and easy to get along with – unlike his predecessor. She saw that Camille liked him too, and she approved even more. Catherine was a shrewd and observant woman: she had watched with some consternation her daughter's growing infatuation with a man who – she was sure – could only break her heart and whilst she was deeply sorry for Richard's death, she secretly rejoiced that here at long last was a man who was eminently suitable and might just stand a chance of winning Camille's affections. She was pretty sure, too, that the newly divorced Inspector harboured quite unprofessional feelings towards her daughter, though she knew nothing had been said. She rather thought that Camille, for all her experience, was unaware of Humphrey's _tendre_ for her and tried to give her a hint one evening when the Inspector had left the bar.

"What a nice man he is! So kind and understanding. Don't you think so, chérie?"

"Yes he is. I do like him."

"And he likes _you._ Very much indeed, I think. More than you realise, perhaps …"

"_Maman_, really! I'm not interested in anything more than friendship."

"But he would be perfect for you. You know you have to settle down one day. And – I'm sorry but I have to say it – Richard is _dead._ You must get over it – you have the rest of your life to live."

"I _am_ over it, _maman_. And perhaps one day I'll find the right man. But it won't be Humphrey. I like him, really I do, and he's a brilliant detective, but he's on the rebound from Sally. He's not really ready for another relationship, and neither am I."

Later that evening, after a couple of glasses of wine, she mulled over the situation. The conversation with her mother had unsettled her. Despite what Catherine thought, Camille was not entirely unaware of Humphrey's interest in her but she was careful not to encourage it. She felt she was living in limbo: despite all the evidence to the contrary she couldn't quite banish the niggling belief that somewhere, somehow, in some totally inexplicable way, Richard was still alive. _Oh for goodness sake _she told herself sternly _you're reading too much into a bunch of flowers. Someone was just playing a sick practical joke. He's dead, of course he is._

_Right_ she thought _you're a detective - make a list of all the evidence. _She pulled out a large sheet of paper and wrote:

REASONS FOR BELIEVING RICHARD IS ALIVE

The flowers – but the choice of white orchids could just be coincidence.

The postcard – definitely his handwriting unless it was forged. But why?

How did the doctor get to the villa before we did and who was he? No-one seems to know. Not that unusual given the chaotic state of the health service here but still …

Why did the doctor insist on travelling in the ambulance? Not normal.

Why was the post-mortem done so quickly? It usually takes several days.

Who was the mysterious pathologist, whose phone is ALWAYS switched off?

Why was the coffin sealed so quickly?

But then, why would "Sasha" and James confess to the murder if a murder hadn't taken place? Camille tore at her hair in frustration. Mindful of the message on the postcard, she had said nothing of her suspicions to anyone. Besides, what could she say? There was no real evidence as such – it was all circumstantial apart from a bunch of flowers and a postcard. People would think she was mad (sometimes she thought so too).

And then there was Humphrey. Once she realised that the pathologist was a dead end, she had asked him how he had managed to arrive on the island so quickly.

"Oh well," said Humphrey, "I knew I was coming anyway and I was all ready, so I only had to bring my departure forward by a week or so."

"You _knew_ you were coming?"

He looked suddenly crestfallen. "Oh God, I'd forgotten I wasn't supposed to tell you. Look, Camille, I'm really sorry, I know Richard hadn't got round to breaking the news …"

"_What_ news?"

"He'd been posted back to the UK. I was asked to take over from him, on a one-year contract initially. I was supposed to be coming out the following week for a handover with him, and Sally was going to follow, as you know. But then Richard was … then Richard died and they asked me to come straightaway. The Commissioner said he hadn't yet told the team – I expect he was trying to find the right moment – and suggested that there was no point in upsetting everyone even more. And now I've gone and done it anyway. Typical Humphrey. Always in a mess. But there, you see … no mystery really."

"No. I see. Thank you for telling me."

She stared intently at the wine glowing darkly in her glass. If this were any other investigation, she would weigh up the evidence and find it sadly wanting. Yes, there were some unanswered questions but taken as a whole there was only one reasonable conclusion: Richard Poole was dead and someone had played a very unkind prank on her. And that was that. As her mother had said, it was time to get on with the rest of her life. Her mind finally settled, she screwed up the sheet of paper, tossed it in the basket, drained the rest of her glass and turned in for the night.

The next morning the second postcard arrived.


	3. Chapter 3 - Explanations

I am extraordinarily grateful to The Watcher on the other site for allowing others to use all the meticulous research of _Mountain Storm_ to explain the survival of Richard Poole. I have incorporated only the briefest summary here.

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><p><em>It's a lot hotter here than in Clacton. And no caravans.<em>

All her previous careful reasoning flew out of the window. Again, no signature, but no-one but Richard could possibly know about his boyhood holidays in England. She had never spoken about the conversation they had had on the night of the hurricane, and she was absolutely sure he would never have mentioned it to anyone else. There could be no doubt about it: she had no idea how or why he had contrived it, but somehow Richard was alive and – judging by the postcard – in Hong Kong.

A broad smile slowly crept over Camille's face and a warm feeling suffused her body. He might never return to the island, she might never see him again, but he was still walking this earth and – most importantly of all – was taking the trouble to ensure that she knew. She realised just how much she had missed him. Fond as she was of Humphrey, it was simply not the same. She missed the rants, the grumpiness, the social awkwardness, the flashes of mordant humour, the way he wrinkled and pursed his mouth when cornered, the brilliant leaps of his mind, the half-smile that he seemed to keep for her alone. And she missed the edginess of their relationship, and the arguments. Camille was used to being called feisty. She preferred to say that she knew her own mind and was not afraid to stand up for what she believed in. In that respect, she and Richard were quite similar and it naturally brought them into regular conflict. But she found their frequent spats stimulating and necessary to her, and she missed them. It was impossible to argue with Humphrey; he would immediately see her side of the issue and capitulate, or propose a compromise. It was, she reflected wryly, like throwing yourself against a soft wall of sheer niceness.

She had been on the point of closing the door on Richard Poole but the postcard changed everything. Suddenly the world seemed a brighter place and the ache in her heart a little less acute. She could face the days ahead with renewed vigour.

Catherine noticed the change in her immediately. She struggled to account for it but rejoiced that her beloved daughter seemed to have finally weathered the storm. The sparkle in her eyes that had been so sadly missing was back and her step had its old spring. Soon everyone else was noticing it too.

"You're in a good mood today, Camille!" commented Dwayne as she hummed beneath her breath around the station. "Found a pound and lost sixpence?"

She laughed. "The sun is shining, the sky is blue, why shouldn't I be in a good mood?"

"Maybe things have progressed between her and the Chief …?" Dwayne suggested later to Fidel. "I haven't seen her like this since before the old Chief died."

"Mmm, maybe, but I'm not so sure that she sees him as more than a good friend. She was very close to the old Chief, and I don't think Camille is so fickle. Not yet, anyway, it's too early."

"Well, there's that new Events Manager at the Paradise Bay Hotel. He's been showing distinct signs of interest in her and he seems like a nice chap, so perhaps she's decided to give him a chance? God knows how many times he's asked her out."

"Well, you know Camille. She goes out on lots of dates but none of them are ever serious. Whatever's causing it, let's just be grateful that the cloud seems to have lifted at last. Seeing her so unhappy has been awful."

Humphrey's six-month anniversary came and went. They bought him a cake and duly celebrated down at La Kaz. He had easily fitted in to island life and it soon seemed as if he had always been there. The crime clear-up rate continued to be impressive and life at the station – while considerably quieter and less combattive than under his predecessor – was harmonious and congenial. _In fact_ reflected Dwayne _you could almost call it dull._

That was until the morning Humphrey was abruptly summoned to the Commissioner's office. Back at the station the team were speculating about what the mild-mannered Inspector could possibly have done to merit such treatment; normally the Commissioner would arrive in person to deliver his well-chosen words.

Dwayne looked out of the window. "There's the Commissioner's car just drawing up. There's several people in it."

"Quick, get into line" Camille ordered, and they drew themselves up respectfully as the big man pushed open the door of the station, followed by a rather expressionless Humphrey. They strained to detect whether he had been on the receiving end of one of the Commissioner's fabled dressings-down, but could not tell.

"Good morning, team. I have some news for you which you will doubtless find rather surprising. DI Goodman certainly did. I am afraid you are to suffer yet another sudden change of Inspector."

"Oh no, not again" muttered Dwayne.

Suddenly Camille sensed what was coming. Her heart started to thump uncomfortably, as she realised a third figure was standing in the shadow of the doorway, as yet hidden from view. She barely heard the Commissioner as he continued smoothly.

"Yes, may I present to you – or perhaps I should say _re_-present, as you are already well acquainted – the miraculously resurrected DI Richard Poole."

A very familiar figure stepped through the doorway, followed by a loud thump as Fidel hit the floor in a dead faint.

"My God, Chief, is it really you? But you're dead, I saw you, all covered in blood and with an ice pick sticking out of your heart!"

"Yes, I know, Dwayne. I'm sorry about that. But appearances can be deceptive. Do you think … perhaps … you should attend to Fidel …?"

Dwayne slipped his arm around the young sergeant, who had come round and was blinking disorientatedly and staring fixedly at Richard.

"H…ullo, S… sir, wh..what a surprise …"

Dwayne helped him up and poured him a glass of water.

"I'm fine now, thanks, Dwayne. It was just the shock. But … but how is it possible, Sir? How can you be alive?"

"Well, I'll leave the Inspector to fill you in. DI Goodman, we need to discuss your re-deployment back to the UK. I'll buy you a drink at La Kaz, I've no doubt you are in need of one." And the Commissioner ushered the still blank-looking Humphrey out of the station and down the stairs.

The four people left inside continued to stare at each other as if frozen to the spot. _Awkward_, thought Richard, _how come I always end up in awkward situations?_ He cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

"Yes, well. It's …er …fantastic to see you all again."

Silence.

"Yes … er … fantastic. I'm sure you're curious to know all about it and I think I probably owe you an explanation."

"Yes, I think you do," said Camille quietly. It was the first thing she had said. He shot her a quick, uncertain look, trying to gauge the degree of hostility behind that statement.

"Um … well, I've been working under cover. In Hong Kong, mostly. On the track of ivory smugglers."

"Ivory!" It was the last thing she had expected. Drugs, prostitution, murder perhaps … but not ivory.

He looked at her defensively. "We lived near a zoo. I always liked elephants."

Fidel broke in. "But I don't understand. Why aren't you dead? How did you do it?"

"And why?"

Those two words stopped him in his tracks. Her eyes were glittering dangerously and he knew he had to tread carefully – if he didn't explain it properly she would never understand and would never forgive him. He paced up and down for a few moments, gathering his thoughts, and then he spoke.

"While I was working at the Met I got seconded temporarily to SOCA (as it then was) following a series of gangland murders amongst the Chinese community in London. You know the sort of thing – tit for tat killings, territorial disputes. We assumed at first that it was all related to the usual stuff: extortion, drugs, prostitution, trafficking … And to some extent it was. But then we discovered that the prime mover was actually ivory. Do you have any idea how the price of ivory has risen since the trade was banned in 1989? These days it's worth billions of dollars worldwide and the African elephant in particular is in serious danger of being wiped out because of illegal poaching.

As you know, China is investing massively in infrastructure projects in Africa, and plenty of Chinese workers are taking advantage of the ivory on their doorstep. A convenient little arrangement with local poachers, and the tusks are sent home for carving. For the Chinese, ivory is very much a status symbol, a statement of their wealth. It's a cultural thing, goes back centuries.

Of course it's been getting harder and harder to get the cargoes through customs, so the traffickers have taken to using more devious routes – such as via London. There have been huge seizures of ivory at Heathrow over the past few years, but we know it's just the tip of the iceberg. It turned out that one of the established Chinese gangs in London – led by a most unsavoury character called Zhu Jin Hao – had set up a network of the 'freelancers' in various parts of Africa. The ivory was arriving in London in dribs and drabs and Zhu's gang were collecting it together and shipping it off to Hong Kong, disguised as consignments of heavy engineering and construction equipment. The trouble started when a second gang tried to muscle in on the trade.

The problem was, we couldn't prove any of it. They were very clever at covering their tracks and although we were convinced that Zhu was the brains behind the operation, we had no evidence that would stand up in court. He always kept his hands clean – any 'hits' were carried out by his minions. And the Chinese community closed ranks – they were all too scared of Zhu and his thugs to co-operate with the police. But then we got lucky. We had an anonymous tip-off, staked out a warehouse in Hounslow for several weeks, and finally caught the gang in the act of re-packing the ivory for shipment to Hong Kong. Unfortunately Zhu escaped, but we heard later that he had been killed by the rival gang as he tried to leave the country. So that was that, end of case, and I went back to Croydon. A few months later I was sent out here."

"So what has that to do with your so-called murder?"

He glared at her, affronted. "I'm coming to that" he huffed. "Not long after I got back from escorting Vicky Woodward to London, I had to go over to Guadeloupe to visit the forensics lab. I was sitting in a café having a beer when I looked across the street and there was Zhu! Not a doubt that it was him – I'd interviewed him several times and I knew him well. It was obvious that he'd recognised me too from the way he shot round the corner and disappeared. I didn't realise at the time just how anxious Zhu would be to keep his return to life a secret but on the way back to the harbour a guy riding pillion on a motorbike took a shot at me with a hand gun. Luckily I glimpsed what he was about to do and threw myself sideways – one of the bullets missed completely and the other just grazed my arm but I realised then that it would be only a matter of time before Zhu realised where I was and tried again.

So as soon as I got home I rang the National Crime Agency and reported that our master criminal, far from being dead, was very much alive and well in the Caribbean. I thought they would arrest him straightaway but they had other ideas; they said they wanted him to lead them to the kingpins in Hong Kong – it was the guys at the very top that they were after. But they were worried for my safety – they were sure he would try again – and wanted me to disappear. So that's when I 'went on holiday', though actually I was holed up in Government House.

Eventually they came up with the idea of taking a leaf out of Zhu's own book and faking my murder. They were trying to persuade me to work for them in disguise in Hong Kong, and they suggested that once it was well known that I was dead, no-one would be looking for me. I wasn't too keen on under cover work – didn't think I'd be very good at it, to be honest – but they stressed that as I was one of the few officers with Chinese language skills and I had already researched the ivory trade in some depth, I was the obvious person for this assignment. I thought about it for a while and eventually agreed – after all, I couldn't stay here with Zhu and his thugs on the loose, and the alternative would be back to a desk job in Croydon."

"And you didn't think of sharing this with us, your team? Did you think we couldn't be trusted?"

He sighed. He had known that this would be the difficult bit. "I wanted to tell you, honestly, Camille, but they wouldn't hear of it. They said if you knew it would put you all in danger from Zhu, and besides they said it needed to look convincing. If _you_ all believed I was dead, so would everyone else. I'm sorry, I know it was upsetting for you."

"Just a little."

He swallowed nervously at the dryness of her tone and continued. "The only one who had to know was the Commissioner."

"Not Humphrey?"

"Not Humphrey, no. Obviously I was going to be away for quite some time and someone had to take over in my absence. DI Goodman was lined up and merely told that I was being posted back to the UK. The 'murder' was arranged just before he was due to arrive on the island, so he only had to bring his departure forward a little."

Fidel interrupted. "I'm sorry, Sir, but I don't see how 'Sasha' and James fit into this."

"Ah, well that was a bit of serendipity. A convenient coincidence. When Angela first emailed me about the projected reunion, I went online and looked at all their Facebook pages to see what they'd been up to since we last met. It may have been more than twenty years since I last saw her but as soon as I saw the photos she had posted I knew straightaway of course that Sasha wasn't Sasha. Helen had had some cosmetic surgery but I recognised her immediately. She always was a spiteful girl, jealous of her older sister, and it didn't take long to work out what she had done or why – the combination of James and all that money was just too much for her. I spoke to the fraud squad and they arrested the pair of them.

So we drove a bargain with them. In return for the lightest possible sentence, they agreed to come out here and appear to murder me."

"I thought it was Angela's decision to come to Saint-Marie?"

"Angela _thought_ it was her decision, but it was actually a piece of clever manipulation by Helen. I knew that an intelligent detective with a really good team behind him would solve the case, given a few clues that I carefully left – the book, my old university photo album – but if for some reason you didn't Helen and James would have come forward and confessed. As you know, after their trial they were deported back to the UK, where I can tell you they served a short sentence and are now free."

"But I still don't understand how you actually did it, how you faked your death. It looked pretty damn convincing to me!"

"It was meant to, Dwayne. It was done with drugs and a false ice pick with a retracting blade. I had to wear a special garment underneath my shirt with a pad and a set of tiny hypodermic needles which punctured my chest when Helen delivered the blow and lodged the ice pick in the pad. The needles administered a cocktail of drugs which served to slow my heart rate and respiration to virtually nil and to paralyse me, to make it look to all appearances as if I was dead. And a couple of phials of my own blood to add to the effect."

Camille shuddered. "You must have been totally insane to agree to that. I can't believe there weren't easier ways to fake a death. What if it had gone wrong? You could have died for real!"

"There was a doctor standing by – he was at the scene before the paramedics. Not one of the doctors from round here – he was brought in specially, as was the pathologist who supposedly did the post-mortem. The doctor gave me the antidote to the drugs in the ambulance and made sure no-one came near enough to me at the hospital to realise I wasn't dead. And he switched the fake ice pick for the real one, which Helen gave him – smeared it with my blood and pretended he had extracted it."

"So who was in the coffin? Not you, obviously."

"No, not me. They got hold of a vagrant who had died recently – roughly the same age and weight as me. I believe he got rather a splendid funeral in England."

"Your poor parents!"

"Oh, I had warned them about it and the Commissioner asked them to act as if I were dead and organise a funeral. That reminds me, I must tell them that I've returned to life."

"And so you've been in Hong Kong all this time, Sir?"

"Yes, most of the time. Obviously I had to disguise myself. I was a bit nervous that Zhu might recognise me if he saw me, so I walked around Honoré for a couple of hours to test the disguise. In fact, you all walked right past me at one point – I was in the crowd when you came back to the station at the end of the day. That was reassuring – if my own team didn't recognise me, it wasn't likely that anyone else would."

"What disguise did you use?"

He shrugged and waved his hands airily. "Oh, just a wig and a pair of glasses. It was surprising what a difference it made."

"Come on, Chief, show us!"

"No I can't, I don't have it any more", he said firmly, hoping desperately that they would believe him. Fortunately, they appeared to.

"So I posed as a go-between. Hong Kong is full of traders in ivory, some of which is licensed and some of which is illegal. I had a good background story. I said I had a major source in Africa and could supply good quality product on a regular basis and eventually someone took me up on the offer. The NCA back at home were feeding me with ivory which had been confiscated at Heathrow and I passed it on, ostensibly from my so-called supplier. It worked like a dream and eventually I got to meet people higher up in the hierarchy. I won't bore you with all the details, but we did get our man in the end, and a major supply route was closed down. So here I am, restored to life and ready to take up the reins again."

"And what about Zhu?"

"Oh, they got him at the same time. It seems that after losing his gang in London he was lying low in the Caribbean and setting up a drugs smuggling business. He's not a threat any more."

Richard's phone rang. "That was the Commissioner. He and DI Goodman are at La Kaz and he has invited everyone to join them. He says the drinks are on him!"

"Well, that's a first". Dwayne grabbed his hat and made for the door. "Come on, Fidel – before he changes his mind!"

Silence reigned in the station, as Richard and Camille looked at each other, both suddenly tongue-tied.

"And the postcards?" she asked softly.

He flushed, fidgeted with his hands and stared at the floor. "Well … er … when I was … um … lying in the chair, I couldn't move but I could still hear." He stopped, and they both remembered the scene. "I … um … I didn't like you being so … upset, so … Well, the boat which was supposed to take me off the island was delayed in bad weather so I couldn't leave until dawn the next day."

"And so you went and picked some flowers that you knew I would recognise and left a note that you knew would make me doubt what had happened. Did they know what you did?"

"God no. I would have been murdered for real if they had found out."

"So you broke the rules?"

He shifted uncomfortably and screwed up his face in a way she had thought she would never see again. "_Technically, _I didn't break any rules. As far as I know, there are no rules relating to flowers. But anyway I knew you would keep it to yourself."

"That was kind of you. Thank you. I _did_ seriously doubt but finally convinced myself that I had been mistaken. And then the second postcard came, from Hong Kong, and I knew I was right all along."

She smiled for the first time. "I still think what you did was idiotic and dangerous, but I'm glad you're not dead. Welcome back!" And she reached up and pecked him on the cheek, as she had done once before.

He froze and became suddenly flustered. "I think we should join the others now."

Same old Richard, then. She suddenly felt absurdly happy.


	4. Chapter 4 - Fever

Two days later they waved goodbye to Humphrey, as he began his journey back to the UK. A promotion to DCI and the offer of heading up a new unit dedicated to the Caribbean drugs trade was intended to console him for his posting being cut short and for any feelings of having been 'used' in an operation of which he had known nothing.

At the airport Richard shook him firmly by the hand and wished him success in his new job.

"You're a lucky man, Richard."

"Lucky? You think I'm _lucky_? Being stuck here on this godforsaken island, where losing my luggage is the national sport? Where it's as hot as hell, the bugs have me for breakfast and I have to go to a _Frenchwoman_ for a decent cup of tea?"

Despite the ache in his heart, Humphrey smiled a little. It was true, then, the man really had no idea. Dwayne and Fidel were next. They were genuinely sad to see him go, so hugged him warmly and thumped him on the back.

"Now mind you come and see us when you're next in the Caribbean! You're bound to be sent out here again in your new job."

He promised. Then there was just Camille. She caught hold of his hands and pulled him a little aside.

"Humphrey, you're the sweetest man I've ever met, and somewhere out there is the right woman for you. I know at the moment you think it's me, but I promise you it isn't. We wouldn't work, you know. You're just too nice for someone like me and sooner or later I'd hurt you. You don't see it at the moment, but you will one day. But I'll always be your good friend, so make sure you keep in touch. And don't forget to let me know when you finally find her – because I know you will."

And she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, then kissed him warmly on both cheeks, in the French manner. And so ended the brief tenure of DI Humphrey Goodman on the tropical island of Saint-Marie.

The small plane taxied to the top of the runway, accelerated and took off. They watched and waved until it was just a dot in the sky.

"Back to work?" suggested Richard tentatively.

"Back to work."

Ten days later, and it was business as normal, almost as if he had never been away. It was surprising how quickly they had dropped back into their old roles and routines. It was a bright and sunny morning, the heat not too oppressive for once, but Richard was in no fit state to appreciate it.

"Are you OK, Sir? You don't look too well." Fidel's anxious voice cut across the office. Camille lifted her head sharply from the file she had been reading and shot a glance across her desk towards her boss. Detective Inspector Richard Poole looked very far from OK indeed.

"Um … I think I might be developing a bit of a cold … feeling a bit … you know … hot. I mean, hotter than usual. I think perhaps I'll … um … call it a day and go home and dose myself up."

Camille sprang to her feet. "I'll get the Defender and take you." She was actually quite shocked: partly at the way Richard looked, which was deathly, and partly by his admission that he was not well, which was unheard of. He was always well – or so he maintained. Except for that time when she had been away in France, of course, and her mother had taken it upon herself to fortify him with chicken soup. It had taken some time before Catherine's ruffled feathers were properly smoothed after that particular little disaster. Camille berated herself for being too immersed in her work to notice that her boss was far from well.

Richard tidied his desk, picked up his jacket and briefcase and made his way carefully down the stairs to the vehicle waiting below, trying desperately to conceal just how unwell he felt. His body was like a furnace, his joints were aching and his head was throbbing so badly that he found it hard not to shut his eyes against the glare of the sunlight. With an effort, he climbed into the passenger seat, pulled the door to and leaned back with a stifled groan. Camille leaned across and fastened his seat belt, the waft of her perfume adding to the maelstrom of sensations with which he was being pulverised.

She drove carefully for once, trying to avoid the potholes which littered the road to the shack and shooting quick glances at him out of the corner of her eyes. Richard's eyes were closed and his body was lurching from side to side every time she turned the steering wheel. She drew up outside the shack, jumped down and ran round to the other side of the vehicle to support him as he almost fell out of the door. He leaned against the vehicle for a moment, then pulled himself together and walked into the shack with as much dignity as he could muster. He turned to face Camille.

"Thanks, Camille. I'll just sleep it off and then I'll be fine in the morning. Really. Pick me up at the usual time?"

She nodded doubtfully but seeing as he was resisting all further offers of help decided to leave him to his own devices, and returned to the Defender. Richard heard the scrunch of the tyres as she drove away then his legs gave way and he collapsed onto the bed. His head by now swimming dangerously, he somehow got out of his suit and into his pyjamas. The last thing he remembered before the darkness hit was that he hadn't fed the lizard.

The following morning the Defender drew up outside and shack and Camille beeped the horn to warn Richard of her arrival. Normally he would appear within a few seconds, shrugging himself into his jacket and climb aboard. But not today. She waited for a minute or so, then jumped down and decided to investigate. She knocked on the door to the shack. No response. "Hello?" she called. Nothing.

Surprisingly the door was unlocked so she pushed it open and peered inside. "Richard?" she called. Suddenly she noticed the clothes strewn across the floor – an unheard of occurrence for the obsessively tidy Inspector. A groan drew her attention to the bed. Richard! She stepped over the clothes and ran to his side. He was dripping with sweat, moaning and tossing restlessly. More worryingly his face was covered with a pink rash. Camille knew what those symptoms meant and quickly called the doctor, who promised to attend within half an hour. In the meantime she picked up the clothes where they had been discarded on the floor and hung up the suit. Then she rang the station and briefly explained to Fidel that the Inspector was ill and would not be in for some days.

The doctor arrived soon afterwards and immediately took Richard's temperature.

"It's dengue fever, isn't it, doctor? I had it myself a few years ago."

"It certainly looks like it. There's quite a lot of it around at the moment. If you've had dengue yourself you'll know that there is very little treatment we can give, but I'd like you to monitor his temperature every few hours. It's nearly 40⁰C at the moment. If it goes any higher call an ambulance and we'll take him into hospital. Give him plenty to drink and paracetamol for the pain, and use cold cloths to try to cool him down a little. And I would get him out of those ridiculous pyjamas if I were you."

As soon as the doctor had left Camille summoned Fidel and Dwayne and the three of them set to work. Dwayne heaved Richard up while Fidel stripped him of his pyjamas and replaced them with a pair of boxers which Camille had found in the wardrobe. He would have been better naked, but she knew he would be horribly embarrassed when he eventually came to his senses. For the self same reason she carefully looked away while this operation was taking place. Then both men lifted their boss while she expertly removed the sweat-sodden sheet and replaced it with a fresh clean one.

Now for the cold cloths. She hunted through the cupboards until she found an old pillow case, which she instantly ripped up into several pieces and soaked in a basin of cold water. These, wrung out, she applied to Richard's forehead, chest and stomach. Then she closed the mosquito net, and flung open the shutters and the door in an attempt to create some kind of cooling draft, though it was a frustratingly still day, with heavy, humid air.

There was now little more that they could do, so she sent Dwayne and Fidel back to the station, with promises of frequent updates, pulled up a chair and settled down for a long vigil.

_Well, I finally have you to myself, Richard_, she thought. _You can't get away from me now._ She replaced the cold cloths with fresh ones, and smoothed his face gently with her hand. He looked so lost and vulnerable lying there, tossing restlessly with the fever, muttering and moaning under his breath, that she was overcome by a wave of tenderness. She had given him time to settle back into life on the island, but she knew she would not be able to hide her feelings for much longer. When she had thought him dead she had grieved that she would never be able to tell him how much he meant to her. _When he's better_, she promised herself, _I'll tell him then_. Now that the realisation had finally come, she was not going to let the opportunity slip away.

He groaned and tried to speak.

"It's all right, Richard, I'm here, you're going to get better."

"Cami …"

"Yes, it's me. Here, you need to drink."

She slipped an arm round his shoulders to raise him slightly and held the cup to his lips. He drank greedily.

"Wossamatter with me? I ache all over. Feel terrible."

"You've got dengue fever, Richard, though only a fairly mild case, the doctor thinks."

"Wha ..?"

"Dengue fever. You've been bitten by an infected mosquito. I expect you got so used to your air-conditioned hotel in Hong Kong that you forgot to use the net when you got back here." She gave him some paracetamol and he sank back into sleep. She was sure she heard him mutter something about _your mother_ and _chicken soup_ as he drifted off. Well, no chance of that. Catherine had not been best pleased to exchange Humphrey for Richard once more.

"Hmmm, I suppose you're going to start mooning around all over again now? Why couldn't the wretched man stay dead? Or if he had to resurrect himself, why did he have to come back _here_ when there are hundreds of other islands that he could be miserable on?"

Camille drew breath to speak but Catherine wasn't to be interrupted. "And what about that nice Jean-Pierre – you know, at the Paradise Bay Hotel. How many times has he asked you for a date? And how many times have you turned him down? And all for someone who – quite frankly, Camille – is just not capable of feeling anything stronger than mild affection for a green lizard!"

"You're wrong, _maman_, I'm sure you are. I'm sure there's passion there, beneath the surface."

"Well if there is, it's damn well hidden" snapped Catherine and began vigorously polishing any glasses that were within her reach.

"I know you've never liked Richard, _maman_.

It's not that I don't like him – he's certainly a lot better than when he first arrived. I just don't want you to get hurt, chérie."

She had no intention of being hurt. And she had reason to believe that he did feel something more than mild affection for her: why else would he have risked breaking all the rules and sending her those postcards? He was a man who habitually lived by the rule book, and she was sure he wouldn't have taken such a step without good reason. Not that he had done or said anything since his return to reinforce that belief – truth to tell, she had been a tad disappointed that he had not asked her out for dinner (unlike Jean-Pierre, who asked her monotonously every time they met). But then, she told herself, he was an exceptionally shy man, seriously lacking in confidence when it came to the fairer sex; in all probability she would have to be the one to make the first move. It had all become clear when she read his diary: Sasha had broken his heart when he was young and he had built a wall around himself so that no-one could ever hurt him again.

But, as she had told her mother, she was quite sure that the passion was there. You only had to listen to him ranting about his lost luggage or the inefficiency of the air conditioning to realise that. He had suppressed all emotion for so long that his pent-up feelings were diverted into other channels and he just exploded like a volcano. In many ways he reminded her of the murderous butler in one of the first cases they had solved together, though of course he would never have gone to such lengths as William. She just needed to convince him that he had nothing to fear or be ashamed of, that it was the most natural thing in the world to have feelings for another person. Natural – unless of course your name was Richard Poole.

She got up and wandered round the shack. All Humphrey's clutter had been cleared away and neatness and order once more held sway. On his desk she found a large, unsealed envelope addressed to the NCA in London, which he had clearly been on the point of posting. She knew she shouldn't pry but the urge was irresistible. It contained all the details of his undercover identity, including the passport he had used. She stared intently at the photo, and was astounded at the difference a wig and pair of glasses made. Even though she knew it was him, she barely recognised the man who stared back at her. With longer, wavy hair he was really not bad looking. She guiltily returned the documents to the envelope, then placed it in the desk drawer for safe keeping.

Then she wandered over to the bookshelves and ran her fingers along the spines of his books, marvelling at the breadth and depth of his range of interest. Philately, entomology, astronomy, botany, history, geology, numismatics, chemistry, palaeontology, ornithology, forensics, oenology (she had to look that one up – wines, she was pleased to note) – the list was endless. Camille considered herself to be an educated and intelligent woman but compared to Richard, she told herself, she was nothing less than an ignoramus who wasted her time on clothes and handbags and other fripperies. _But you're good with people_ a voice inside her whispered _and – for all his learning – he isn't._ Their different strengths complemented each other wonderfully at work – but could it also succeed on a personal level?

He stirred, and she returned to the bedside, once more changing the cold cloths that were supposedly cooling him. His temperature had not come down, but it had not risen any further either, so she had not called the doctor again. He slept for most of the time, often twisting this way and that in an attempt to get comfortable. As the doctor had warned, he became delirious at times; he poured out mostly a jumble of nonsense but occasionally she could understand him.

"Harry … I haven't fed him …"

"No soup …"

"I want some _tea!_"

"Too many elephants …"

"Not curly, I don't want curly hair."

"I want to go home …"

"They've lost my luggage …"

"Why did you do it, Sasha?"

Her throat constricted when she thought of how badly Sasha's choice of James as a husband had damaged Richard. _She must have been quite a remarkable woman to draw in a man like him_ she mused, wondering what Helen's sister had actually been like. _Brainy, of course. _She gave herself a mental shake: she was normally a bold, confident woman, capable of attracting any man she wanted. It wasn't like her to doubt herself – but then she had never met a man like Richard before.

Fidel and Dwayne had offered to share some of the nursing, to give Camille a break, and even Catherine was prepared to do her turn, although she refused point blank to prepare any more soup, chicken or otherwise. The plant pot breathed a sigh of relief. They covered the next few days between them in relays. Sometimes the fever seemed to abate a little, at others it raged fiercely. Richard was weak and often disorientated, but no worse. His joints still ached and the pain behind his eyes still throbbed, but the doctor declared himself satisfied with his progress.

Arriving one afternoon to relieve her mother, Camille found her fanning a sweating Richard, who was tossing deliriously from side to side.

"Oh _maman, _I thought he was getting better."

"The doctor said it was normal for the fever to fluctuate – he's nearly over the worst. But he's been babbling on about something or other for the past hour. I can't make head nor tail of it!"

She relinquished her post to her daughter, who took over the fanning. The muttering and babbling grew slowly worse – something was obviously troubling Richard deeply. She strained to hear what he was saying.

"Please don't do it, please, _please_ don't do it. Rachel, please don't tell them. Rachel, _please."_

_Rachel?_


	5. Chapter 5

She bent over the delirious man.

"Richard!"

His hot and feverish hand grabbed her wrist. "Rachel, Rachel …"

"It's not Rachel, it's me, Camille."

"No, not Camille … Rachel! I'm so sorry, Rachel …"

"_It's Camille, Richard!"_

"Who? Where's Rachel?"

Suddenly she wanted to cry. Not from sorrow but from anger. Anger at herself for being such a fool as to believe that this annoying, _impossible_ man could possibly have feelings for her. How had she allowed her fascination with his many quirks and oddities to develop into such an infatuation? _How could I be so stupid? _she thought savagely. _I am a Detective Sergeant, I graduated top of my class and have commendations for bravery and yet I have behaved like a total idiot. Thank God I found out before I made a complete fool of myself._

She – who prided herself on her intuition and her ability to 'read' people – had got it totally wrong. She had convinced herself that his heart had been broken at a tender age and that he had spent the rest of his life trying and failing to get over his rejection by Sasha. But clearly that was not the case. He had kept it well hidden (he was so good at hiding things) but he was obviously totally obsessed by this _Rachel_, whoever she was. Someone far more clever and intellectual than _her_, she was sure. Probably a woman he had met in Hong Kong. In a stroke, the beautiful house that she had built of air had collapsed around her. _And I have no-one to blame but myself. Maman warned me, but I wouldn't listen. Well, that's the end of that – I don't need telling twice._

She glanced back at the bed. Richard was once more sleeping fitfully. She took his temperature and noted that it was starting to fall. He was clearly on the mend and would soon have no further need of her. That was fortunate, because she had no intention of sitting by his bedside for a minute longer. She summoned Fidel to take over from her until he woke, and returned to the station. Climbing out of the Defender, she was greeted cheerfully by Jean-Pierre, from the Paradise Bay Hotel.

"Hi Camille, you're looking gorgeous, as always. Are you going to have dinner with me tonight, or are you going to turn me down yet again?"

She thought for no longer than a split second. _Well why not? She needed to get on with her life, and he was a nice guy. If she hadn't been so besotted with someone else, she would have dated him weeks ago._

"Love to. What time?"

He looked startled, but pleased. "Hey, Christmas has come early this year! Pick you up at seven?

"Looking forward to it. See you later."

_Well, that was easy, _she thought, _and maman will be pleased._ No more 'mooning around'. She didn't need a man who was in love with someone else. She had her pride, after all. She felt suddenly liberated and strangely free from the tenseness and anxiety that had hung round her for months. _You never know, I might even enjoy it._

The next morning heralded a downpour of biblical proportions. Dwayne and Fidel were reminding each other that it was not all sun and heat on Saint-Marie when Camille ran laughing and squealing up the stairs and into the station, shaking the rain from her rather bedraggled hair as she went.

"You're in a good mood today, Camille. Did the date go well last night?"

"You know what, Dwayne, I had a really nice evening. It's a long time since I had so much fun."

"Going to see him again, then?"

She pretended airy indifference: "I might", then collapsed in a fit of giggles. "He wants me to go to the Inauguration Ball with him."

Fidel was intrigued. "That's a new one on me …?"

"Oh, the hotel is opening its new conference and dining facilities, and they're celebrating with a posh party at the end of the month. Jean-Pierre is Events Manager so he's in charge of organising it all."

"And will you go?"

Her eyes danced with mischief. "Probably", she laughed, "if I can find something suitable to wear. I think a trip to Guadeloupe is in order."

"Sounds serious!"

"Now, now, Dwayne, don't get carried away. It's early days yet."

Yes, it was early days but she felt strangely excited. She hadn't been exaggerating – she really _did_ enjoy last night. Jean-Pierre was fun to be with - and fun had been in short supply in her life lately. He made her laugh over silly things without being particularly witty, he had a lazy charm and was immediately at ease with everyone he met. Like her, he was of mixed Caribbean/French parentage, but he had grown up on Guadeloupe, so they had never met when younger. He was about the same age as her, and had spent some years 'learning the trade' in America, returning to the Caribbean only quite recently. In fact, she could not have picked anyone more unlike a certain Detective Inspector if she had tried.

As for Richard, she had not allowed herself to give him more than a passing thought or two – she was quite determined not to be sucked back into her old obsession. She knew from Fidel that the doctor had visited again and pronounced him definitely on the mend and no longer in need of nursing care. He was still very weak, however, needed a lot of rest and had been signed off work for a further week.

"How much do you bet he'll be back at the station within 24 hours?" asked Dwayne, sinking his third tot of rum later that evening at La Kaz.

"I'm sure you're right," added Fidel, "but I don't know how we can stop him. You know what he was like the last time he was ill."

They were overheard. "That wretched man! Don't worry - you boys just leave it to me. I'll make sure he doesn't show his face outside the shack for the next week. Take care of the bar for me." And Catherine marched onto the street and summoned a cab. Forty minutes later she was back.

"All done", she reported, "you won't have any problems."

"How did you do it, _maman?"_

"Aha." Catherine tapped the side of her nose significantly.

"Oh come on, Catherine, I'll burst if you don't tell us."

"Oh all right." She settled herself down, a small triumphant smirk on her face. "He won't leave the shack because he has no clothes."

"What do you mean?"

"I've removed everything, apart from his underwear and pyjamas. It's all upstairs in the spare room. There's no way he'll risk setting a foot outside. I'll take him over some food in the morning."

"You're amazing, Catherine!" There was much laughter and clinking of glasses, and speculation about the size of the volcanic eruption when the beleaguered Inspector realised what she had done.

The next morning, as promised, Catherine set out for the shack, armed with two baskets of provisions, enough to last for the rest of the week. She found Richard sitting in his favourite chair in his pyjamas. He scowled at her as she breezed in.

"Good morning, Richard, good to see you up and about again. How are you feeling today?"

"I'd be feeling a bloody sight better if I had some clothes to put on" he growled. "According to Dwayne and Fidel, they are in your possession, so I would be obliged if you would restore them to me immediately."

"So that you can get dressed and go to work? No, I don't think so, Richard. The doctor ordered you to rest for a week."

He heaved himself up and glared at her. "It's ridiculous, I'm well now. I'm perfectly capable of doing my job."

"Then why did it take such an effort for you to stand up? You're as weak as a kitten." She gave him a small push with her hand and he sat down again far more quickly than he had planned. "I'll bring your clothes back when the doctor says you are well enough to wear them."

"In that case I'll just ring up and order some new ones."

"Well, good luck with that, Richard. I don't think you'll find any suits in the island shops. Though you might be able to get a pair of shorts and a T shirt."

He ground his teeth. "I don't suppose the team would mind seeing me in more casual wear."

"Can't you understand, you silly man? The team don't want to see you _at all._ They want you back when you're fit and well and not before. They don't want to spend their time worrying about you, wondering if you're about to keel over at any moment. Fidel and Dwayne will come every night and update you on what is going on, so you just keep out of their way and let them get on with their jobs."

Richard fretted and hurrumphed for a few minutes longer, then realised he wasn't going to win this particular battle. Catherine was a formidable foe, deserving of respect. He sighed in defeat.

"Very well." He swallowed nervously. "And … how is … how is Camille? She hasn't been here for a while. When I was ill she was … here … I think?"

"Yes, she was here when you were ill. But now you don't need her any more. And anyway she's very busy at the moment – she's got a new boyfriend."

"Oh?"

Catherine smiled complacently. "Yes, you know, that nice young man at the Paradise Bay Hotel. Jean-Pierre, his name is."

"I know the one, I've seen him: flashy car, flashy clothes, grins like a Cheshire cat all the time?"

"That's very unfair, Richard, when you've never even met him. Yes, he has a sports car – and a motor boat actually – and he wears nice clothes, not off-the-peg. But he's a charming man, just the right age, the perfect match for Camille and she seems very happy with him. She's going out with him again tonight, in fact."

"French?"

"Half-French, like Camille."

_There's no such thing as half-French._

"Oh."

"Well, I can't stay here chatting, I have a bar to run. Let me know if you need any more food." And Catherine bustled out, leaving behind a very thoughtful and unaccountably depressed Chief of Police.

At the end of the week, his clothes duly restored, Richard returned to work.

"Good morning, Sir", "Nice to have you back, Chief." Richard acknowledged Fidel and Dwayne's greeting and sat down at his desk. After such a long period of enforced absence, it was good to be back. He ran his fingers along the edge of his chair appreciatively and noted with satisfaction the small neat pile of files in his in-tray. He had spent much of the past week reading and listening to music, which was always a pleasure, but nothing could beat an in-tray of unsolved crimes. He looked across at the empty desk in front of him.

"Camille not in yet?"

Dwayne rolled his eyes significantly. "Not yet. Heavy night last night, if you get my meaning."

Richard was rather afraid that he did. His throat felt suddenly dry.

"So it's serious then, this thing with the new boyfriend?"

"Looks like it. But who knows? Perhaps you'd better ask her yourself – here she is."

"Ask me what?" A familiar voice cut across the room.

Richard panicked, searching desperately for something non-controversial. "Er … um … nothing … that is … that is … I was wondering whether …"

"Whether …?"

His cheeks were burning with mortification. "Whether … er … whether we should all go to La Kaz at lunchtime to celebrate my return to work." Phew.

"Fine … especially if you're buying."

Truth to tell, she had been dreading having to face him again. In the week following his catastrophically revealing ramblings, she had sent him a couple of polite text messages enquiring after his health but had made no effort to visit the shack again. Since he would have no recollection of what he had said in his delirium, there was clearly no reason for any embarrassment on her part, and yet she had not looked forward to his inevitable return to work. The relationship with Jean-Pierre was progressing splendidly – for the first time in years she found herself actively looking forward to their dates – but she was not sure in her own mind how she should now treat Richard. If she froze him out people would notice and it would be difficult to explain. Even worse, he might ask her what he had done wrong, and then she would have no idea what to reply. She didn't think, however, that she could revert to her previous familiar manner. No, she had moved on. She resolved instead to aim for friendly-but-cool-and-slightly-distant. But that was easier said than done.

She made a start by briefing him on everything that had happened since he was taken ill. He had heard the gist of it from Fidel and Dwayne of course, but knowing his avidity for hard facts she was careful to include every last detail. That took most of the morning and before they knew it it was lunchtime and they found themselves at La Kaz, drinking a toast to the restored health of the station chief. Catherine began ferrying plates of food to their table and they ate with relish, Dwayne regaling them between mouthfuls with the latest episode of his prolific love life. It made for frequent bursts of laughter and a fairly relaxed atmosphere, and the slight tension between Richard and Camille went unnoticed except by the shrewdest pair of eyes on the island.

Dwayne was in the middle of recounting his narrow escape from an over-50s ballet class when a tall figure suddenly bounded up the steps to the table. "Camille! You didn't tell me you were lunching here. May I join you for a few minutes?"

There was nothing for it. "Richard, this is Jean-Pierre Collard. Jean-Pierre, my boss, Inspector Richard Poole." She briefly met her beau's eyes. _Yes, _she told him wordlessly, _this is the man you so memorably described as the middle-aged, balding Englishman in the ill-fitting woollen suit._ He twinkled reassuringly back at her as he beamed a broad smile and shook Richard warmly by the hand.

"I have been looking forward to meeting you, Inspector. You're quite famous on this island – everyone has heard of the Sherlock Holmes of the Caribbean!"

Richard mumbled something incoherent.

"And of course Camille has told me so much about you." This, with a wicked smile in her direction.

He gulped. "Erm, I understand you work at the Paradise Bay Hotel?"

"Yes, I'm the Events Manager there. Do you know it? It's a beautiful hotel and in such a beautiful location. And I have my own little cabin in the grounds. I'm really very lucky." A thought struck him. "Hey, won't you please join us at our Inauguration Ball at the weekend? Dwayne and Fidel will be there, and Catherine is coming too. And Camille of course."

"Er … no … really … things to do …"

A voice cut across his disjointed excuses. "I need someone to go with, you can be my escort, Richard."

"There, that's settled then. You'll come with Catherine. Sorry – got to run – clients to see. Great to meet you, Inspector. See you later, Camille."

Richard was left stuttering a futile protest as the young man sped down the steps and into a taxi.

"Well, won't that be nice?" It was clear from the firmness of her tone that Catherine would brook no argument. Nice was not the word he would have used but, once again, Richard bowed to the inevitable and gave in.

In the days that followed he looked in vain for any symptoms that would indicate a return of his fever and thus prevent his attendance at the ball. But it was not to be – his fate was sealed. With a heavy heart he got out his best suit and tie, polished his shoes until they shone and combed his hair even flatter than usual. He was well aware that he lacked confidence in even the simplest of social situations and as a result was all too prone to the mortifying gaffes with which his life was blighted. And this was a far from simple situation. In short, he was dreading it.

Arriving at the hotel he escorted Catherine from the taxi to the main reception room, where the first thing that caught his eye was the unmistakeably imposing bulk of the Commissioner.

_My cup runneth over_, he thought bitterly. _Not only do I have to escort a mad Frenchwoman dressed like something out of the Arabian Nights and watch my Detective Sergeant cavorting with her new inamorato, but my boss is here to witness whatever public humiliation awaits me during the course of the evening. Marvellous._

He wondered how quickly he would be able to make an excuse and leave, but Catherine grabbed his arm and was dragging him towards the welcoming line, headed by Jean-Pierre.

"So glad you could come, Inspector. Catherine, you look _magnifique_ this evening!"

Richard mumbled a few grudging pleasantries and moved on, his attention suddenly caught by a vision of shimmering taffeta. He gasped in astonishment.

"If I didn't know you better, I would swear you were ogling me, Richard!" she chided, with mock severity. "Haven't you ever seen me dressed up before?"

_Not like that._ _Not with your hair piled on top of your head, and pearls and killer stilettos. _"Erm, yes, of course. I mean yes, I've seen you dressed up before not yes I was ogling you …" He disappeared into a tangle of words.

But she had lost interest already and was drifting over to Jean-Pierre's side.

"Oh … er … you look … fantastic, Camille!" he called across the widening gap that separated them. She turned her head briefly. "Thank you."

Richard hovered awkwardly on the edge of the crowd, observing with some envy the ease with which Jean-Pierre welcomed his guests: a few well chosen words here and there, a smile, a warm handshake, a pat on the shoulder, the merest whisper of a kiss on the cheeks – it was all done with such effortlessness. Of course Camille was equally talented in that department and he watched with growing appreciation her progress round the room, affectionately greeting her many acquaintances. He knew, with a leaden certainty, that if he lived to be a hundred, he would never possess that level of skill.

A finger poked him imperiously in the back. "I'd like a drink please, Richard. Some sparkling wine, I think."

By the time he had navigated his way to and from the bar and returned with Catherine's drink precariously balanced in his hand, carefully avoiding the jostling crowds, Camille had been swallowed up by the throng of people surrounding Jean-Pierre. He sat down somewhat disconsolately, for once glad that Catherine's garrulous nature made small talk unnecessary. She seemed to know pretty much everyone in the room and was happy chatting to anyone who came within her orbit. Himself, he was more than happy to let the world pass him by. Feeling the impact of a heavy thud at the other end of the sofa, however, Richard looked up to find the Commissioner gently quizzing him.

"Enjoying yourself, Inspector? One cannot over-estimate the importance of social occasions such as these and the opportunities they provide to mingle with the rich and powerful people on the island who control all our destinies. I hope you have been mingling, Inspector?"

"Oh yes, sir, yes, I have mingled. Just …er … having a rest from mingling."

"Good, good. I see Sergeant Bordey is in fine fettle." He reached across and tapped Catherine on the arm. "Camille is looking particularly radiant tonight, Catherine!"

"Oh hello, Selwyn. Yes, isn't she. I guess that's love for you!"

"And who is the fortunate young man?"

"His name is Jean-Paul."

"Jean-_Pierre_, Richard. He's the Events Manager here, Selwyn. Such a _nice_ young man, so _suitable_ in every way." She shot a darkling look at Richard.

He sniffed. "He looks a bit young for her – I never took her for a cradle-snatcher!"

"Now, now, Inspector …"

"He is precisely _eleven months_ younger than Camille, which is hardly cradle-snatching." Catherine was obviously deeply offended.

The Commissioner gazed appreciatively as people now made their way onto the floor. "Well, they certainly make a handsome couple."

Unfortunately it was impossible to disagree with that statement. The band struck up and the dancing started, and they were forced to watch. The first two were energetic and rhythmic Caribbean dances, with much jumping, spinning and hip swivelling. At the end the couples were giddy and breathless and collapsed onto the floor in an exhausted heap.

"Doesn't it make you wish you were young again?"

_Not really. Mad as a bag of frogs, the lot of them._

"Oh yes, Selwyn. But I don't have the energy to dance like that any more. I leave it to Camille."

The band struck up something slow. "Perhaps you could manage this, Catherine, it's more our sort of tempo …?" The Commissioner held out his hand and after a moment's hesitation Catherine rose and he led her onto the floor.

Richard was left alone. It was still too early to make his escape, so he was forced to watch the dancing. Unable to bear the sight of the Commissioner gyrating around Catherine in a rather stately manner, he let his eyes rove around the ballroom until they were caught by the shimmer of a taffeta that he recognised. No matter how hard he tried he found himself unable to drag himself away from the spectacle of Camille and Jean-Pierre locked in a tight embrace, smiling into each other's eyes and swaying gently to the music. A singer began to croon softly:

"There was a man, a lonely man

Who lost his love through his indifference.

A heart that cared, that went unshared

And slowly died within his silence.

Now solitaire's the only game in town …"

Richard got up abruptly and strode blindly out onto the terrace. He stood with his back pressed against the wall waiting for the blood in his face to drain and his breathing to subside. He had only one desire: to escape.

After a while he began to re-gain some measure of composure. If he was quick, he reckoned that he could sneak back in, skirt the back of the room and exit via the hallway without anyone seeing him. But just as he was on the point of setting off the sound of approaching voices reached him: he was about to be joined on the terrace. Cursing his luck he shot behind a large broad-leaved laurel bush where he could safely wait until the coast was clear. He didn't want either Catherine or the Commissioner to catch him creeping away.

From the safety of his hiding place he could tell that it was a man and a woman who had come out onto the terrace. Their voices were low and murmuring and thankfully he could not distinguish what they were saying. But suddenly there was a ripple of laughter that froze him to the ground. He had no need to peer through the branches of the bush to know who the amorous couple were, but could not stop himself from parting the leaves. Her dress glinting in the moonlight, Camille stood with her arms resting lightly on her partner's shoulders, smiling up at him. A curious pain knotted itself in Richard's stomach. He knew he was being voyeuristic - he should make his presence clear to avoid intruding on what was obviously a private moment. But the thought of the embarrassment that would cause was too great for him and he remained rooted to the spot, turning his head away as Jean-Pierre bent and kissed her. To Richard, the embrace seemed to go on for an eternity, but eventually Jean-Pierre appeared to whisper something in Camille's ear. She giggled and nodded. Slipping his arm round her waist, he drew her off the terrace and down the path that led to the cabins in the grounds.

Richard drew a shuddering breath. As soon as they were out of sight he sped back through the ballroom, not caring whether anyone saw him. He thought he heard Dwayne calling after him but he ignored everyone. He just had one fixed idea: to throw himself into the first available taxi and get home.

Arriving back at the shack, he locked the door, pulled all the shutters to, and switched off his phone. Finally he was safe, in his own little sanctuary where no-one could get at him. He didn't want to think about the events of the night, he pushed away the thoughts that were crowding into his brain. _No! Not now! _Flinging off his clothes he climbed into bed – but sleep would not come. It was too quiet, he needed something to fill his mind, to stop him thinking the thoughts he didn't want to think. He tried a book, but couldn't concentrate. Music! Yes, that would fill the void. He switched on the radio. They were playing 'golden oldies'. _Just right for me_, he thought – _well, maybe not golden but certainly oldie._ He began to relax a little as he listened to songs that were familiar from his childhood. Ah, The Carpenters! His mother's favourites. He began to hum along …

I'll say goodbye to love

No one ever cared if I should live or die.

Time and time again the chance for

Love has passed me by

And all I know of love is how to live without it …

He rolled over sharply, snapped off the radio and buried his head beneath his pillow.


	6. Chapter 6 - Passing Strangers

Thanks again to everyone for their comments! Only one more chapter to go ...

* * *

><p>"Are you quite sure?"<p>

"Absolutely, Inspector. We've checked your blood pressure eight times now and conducted a full ECG and I can assure you that your heart is perfectly normal."

"But the tachycardia … I promise you, I can feel my heart racing at times."

"I'm sure that's nothing to be concerned about. May I suggest that you start to keep a record of any time that you feel your heart is behaving abnormally? There are many things that might trigger a bout of tachycardia – physical exertion obviously, but make a note of the time of day, what you have been eating or drinking, what you have been doing, who you have been with … that sort of thing. If you can find any kind of pattern, then come back and see me again and we'll investigate further. You know what I always say? When everything else has been disproved, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Don't worry, we'll get to the bottom of it yet! Good-day, Inspector."

* * *

><p>Richard lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. After the trauma of the evening before he felt exhausted and strangely lethargic, and it wasn't because of the sleep that had eluded him for the greater part of the night. The cardiologist's words haunted him. When everything else has been disproved …<em>No! <em>He didn't want to go there, he really didn't. If he was honest, he was far too frightened of what he might discover.

From the day he had realised, at the age of eight, that his parents were really not that interested in him and that he was doomed to spend the rest of his adolescence in the confines of a boarding school, Richard had started to build the wall around him that would keep him safe from further hurt. As he got older the wall had turned into a full-blown fortress, with drawbridge (always firmly up), turrets and crenellations. From within his fortress he observed the world with detachment, without ever really being part of it. It was a fiercely solitary existence but one which had served to protect him against anything life could throw at him.

Over the years he had convinced himself that he didn't care if his work colleagues ignored or mocked him or went to extraordinary lengths to avoid being partnered with him. He made himself believe that friends were at best an encumbrance and at worst a damned inconvenience, so it didn't matter if he had none. His experiments with friendship at university had not been exactly successful: he had never understood why Roger held it against him for reporting his cheating to the authorities and as for Angela, well, the woman was like a bloody limpet, always turning up at the wrong moment and hanging around when she wasn't welcome. And then there was Sasha – Sasha, who became so important to him; Sasha, to whom he was nowhere near as important as he had thought. He had broken all his rules for Sasha and what had he got? The door slammed in his face.

_Can't say I blame her, really. I wasn't much of a catch, even then, and certainly not when compared to the young god that James was in those days. And I haven't exactly improved in the twenty-odd years since. But I've managed perfectly well on my own for all this time, so what is the matter with me now? Why am I reduced to the state of an adolescent schoolboy?_

But, even if he refused to admit it, he knew the answer to that question. Nothing in his tightly controlled and regulated life had prepared him for the sheer physical impact on his senses of a woman like Camille Bordey. His own physicality, repressed for so long, manifested itself only in what Camille called his 'ogling' of women who openly displayed their ample assets in skimpy attire, and was over in seconds. Nothing like the overwhelming sensation of dizziness and breathlessness that her presence induced. But if anyone had accused him of having become totally captivated by an alluring but tempestuous woman ten years his junior, he would have strenuously denied it.

It was so much more convenient when he had her pigeon-holed as an irrational, infuriating harpy, impossible to work with – and at times she still was. But then there were the other times, when she was kind, generous and understanding, times when he found he could relax a little and talk to her freely. He was uncomfortably aware that he had allowed her to demolish some of the bricks in his wall. At the time it had seemed heady and exciting to allow her to make inroads, but in retrospect it had been a bad move on his part – he should have got the mortar and trowel out and repaired the breach before too much damage was done.

But self-knowledge had come too late. Camille had made her choice. In any case it was foolish to believe that – even if Jean-Pierre had not come along – she would ever have chosen _him._ Richard Poole was no self-deceiver: he knew perfectly well that, next to the tall young man with the easy smile and the charming manner, he cut a rather sorry (if neatly turned out) figure. There was nothing about him to attract the opposite sex. True, he was not repulsive to look at, but he was no Adonis either, his hair was receding at an alarming rate and he was most definitely middle-aged now. And he was quite hopeless in social situations. If he had ever summoned the courage to ask Camille for a date _(not that he had any intention of ever doing such a thing),_ he had no idea what he would talk to her about. Was she interested in stamp-collecting or bird-spotting? He very much doubted it. In short, he would never have had a cat in hell's chance with her.

A knock on the door interrupted his musings. It opened to reveal Camille herself hesitating on the threshold.

"Oh, er … _maman_ said you left your jacket at the hotel last night, so I said I would drop it in." She held out the garment in question, adding hurriedly "I noticed that it had your phone in it, so I thought you might need it before Monday."

He took it wordlessly with a brief nod of thanks.

"You left very suddenly last night …?"

"Yes. Yes, I did. Sorry, … I … um … I didn't feel very well. The fever … you know … it comes back now and then."

"I see."

"But … but it was a great party and … and you looked great … and …er … I had a great time. Mingling, that is."

"Mingling?"

"Yes, … er … the Commissioner said I should mingle. Yes … um … a great party. Please apologise for me to Jean-Claude for leaving so early."

"Jean-_Pierre_."

"Yes, sorry. Jean-Pierre."

He sighed. _Another awkward conversation. Why can't I do smooth, just once in my life?_

"Er … would you like a beer?"

She hesitated, then appeared to come to a decision. "OK, thanks."

They leaned on the balcony, bottle in hand, and stared fixedly out to sea, not looking at each other.

"You're very quiet today?"

Camille seemed to be struggling with herself. Eventually she forced herself to speak.

"I have a big decision to make. I wonder – could I ask your advice?"

He screamed silently. _No! I don't want your confidences. I don't want to hear any more about you and Jean-Pierre. Last night was enough to last a lifetime. _ "Well … I don't think … er … I'm not sure … um … yes of course."

She drew a deep breath and continued to stare straight ahead.

"There's this man, you see."

"Oh." _Jean-Pierre. _The familiar knot returned to his stomach. His throat felt constricted.

"Yes. I'm pretty crazy about him but I'm not sure he feels the same about me."

He forced himself to reply. "I see. And have you told him?"

"Not in so many words. But you'd think he'd know by now, I've given him so many clues."

"Perhaps he's not very bright?"

"Oh he's _very_ bright. But he doesn't talk much about his feelings. So it's difficult to know how deep they run."

"Ah."

"The question is: should I tell him how I feel and risk finding out that he doesn't feel the same?"

_Not this, not this, o Lord. _He swallowed convulsively. He felt physically sick.

"Well," he said stiffly, "I'm not sure I'm the … er … right person to ask. But … but if you think he might not want you then no, I wouldn't tell him, I wouldn't risk being rejected."

A look of great hurt crossed her face and she stifled what sounded like a sob. "I see. Well, thank you for telling me. I'm sure you're right – you nearly always are. I must be off now, or my mother will wonder what has become of me."

And in another instant she was gone.

* * *

><p>Arriving at the station on Monday morning, Richard found Camille already hard at work hunched over her computer. She bade him a cool <em>good morning<em> and returned to her screen. He had thought a lot about their last conversation but was still not sure why she had come to him for advice – after all, he was well known to be useless in matters of the heart. He was also pretty useless at reading body language, but even he could tell from her intense concentration on her computer screen that she had no wish for any further conversation. Well, that was fine by him. He had never really known how to read Camille and now the relationship between them appeared to be so hopelessly tangled and fraught that silence was probably the best policy.

And so the pattern of the week was set. They were civil to each other, but neither made any attempt to stray off piste; they spoke only about the cases they were investigating. It was a fairly quiet time: a case of domestic violence, some illegal drugs circulating in the island's bars and clubs, a couple of robberies and a crash between a lorry and a bus in which two people died. Nothing that the team couldn't easily handle between them, and definitely no sign of a juicy murder. They jogged along in a reasonably calm manner, and if Camille seemed a little thoughtful and preoccupied Richard was careful not to comment on it.

It was therefore quite a surprise when the Commissioner arrived after lunch on Friday and insisted on taking him for a drink at La Kaz – even more so when he broke the news that Camille had applied for a transfer.

"A transfer? Where?" Richard could not keep the shock from his voice.

"Anywhere, apparently. I wondered if you could perhaps enlighten me, Inspector, as to the reason why I am losing the best detective that this island has ever produced? I know the two of you have sometimes found it difficult to work together …"

"No, no, it's not that. I mean … well, yes, we sometimes disagree but … but not so much as we used to. She's … she's a vital part of the team, Sir. I can't imagine how we would manage without her."

"Well it looks as though you will have to. So you have no idea why she has developed such a sudden desire to leave the island?"

Richard crossed his fingers under the table. "No, Sir, none at all. Did … did she not give a reason?"

"She said something about needing to spread her wings, lacking any opportunity for progression here. That may well be the case – but it has _always_ been the case, and it does not explain the sudden urgency. Ah well, I see you are unable to shed any light on the matter."

And with that, the Commissioner heaved himself up, greeted some of the other guests en passant, and strolled off in the direction of his office, leaving Richard sitting in a stunned heap.

Catherine, who had been observing the exchange between narrowed eyes, put down the cloth with which she had been polishing a row of glasses, and moved purposefully over to his table.

"You're sitting there with your mouth open like a goldfish, and you haven't touched your tea. Is there something wrong, Richard?"

He turned towards her. "He just told me Camille has applied for a transfer", he said slowly.

"And you're surprised? Well, what did you expect?" She saw the hurt and bewilderment in his eyes, but ploughed on determinedly. "You've only yourself to blame, Richard."

Now he was totally lost. "Me? _Me?_ Why is it _my_ fault? Why is it _always_ my fault?" All his life he had been told that he was to blame, that it was his fault, and he had never been able to fathom why. He worked hard, he was not deliberately selfish, he tried to live by a moral and ethical code second to none, and yet he always seemed to be in the wrong, to be continually apologising for things he couldn't understand, no matter how hard he tried. Now here was Camille's mother blaming him for driving Camille away when God knew all he wanted was for her to stay.

"Oh Richard, you really have no idea, do you? I was right all along, I always knew it would end badly." She got up from the table and resumed her polishing, hardening her heart against the misery and confusion that she could see writ large on his face.

"I'm sorry – though I'm not sure what for. I'd better go" he mumbled, grabbing his jacket and briefcase.

"No woman will wait for ever, you know" she called, as he stumbled down the stairs.

_What did she mean by that? _He turned sharply, but Catherine had disappeared.


	7. Chapter 7 - Like a Butterfly

_Apologies: I meant to post this over the weekend but was wiped out by the vomiting bug. Hope you all have a great Christmas!_

* * *

><p>Once again, Camille stood hesitating on the threshold of the shack. It was dark outside now although it was not that late, and she could see the light under the door. She was no coward, but she really wasn't looking forward to this interview one little bit. <em>Just get it over with<em> she told herself _and you'll soon be out of here. You graduated top of your class and you have several commendations for bravery - you can do this! Deep breath. _She pushed open the door. Richard was in his pyjamas, reading. He looked up and sprang quickly to his feet, muttering an apology for his state of undress. She brushed it aside and went straight to the point.

"I should have told you first, I'm sorry you heard it from the Commissioner."

He stared at her in an uncomprehending fashion. "Your mother says it's my fault you're leaving the island. _Why? _I don't have I done? Is it because I gave you the wrong advice the other night – about not telling Jean-Pierre?"

"Not telling _Jean-Pierre?_ You thought I was talking about Jean-Pierre?" She could hardly believe what she was hearing.

Now he was completely lost. "W-well y-yes …, of course … You … you've been … er … seeing such a lot of each other and … and as your mother says he's …um … the ideal man for you. You know … young, good-looking, sociable, good fun …" His voice tailed off falteringly. He had rarely felt so wretched.

A small voice inside her started to sing.

"Yes, Jean-Pierre is all those things. And I had a lot of fun with him. But life is about more than just having fun, and underneath all the smiles and the charm there's really nothing much there. He knows nothing about stamp-collecting, to start with. In fact, he knows nothing much about anything other than how to have a good time. Which is fine, as far as it goes – but that's not far. I'll always like him but I don't want to spend the rest of my life with him. We broke up at the ball."

"At the ball? But … but … I _saw_ you, dancing together and then out on the terrace. You went off … down towards the cabins … and … and … well, I assumed …"

"You assumed that I spent the night with him? Oh Richard, how many times have you told me never to assume _anything?_ Though it was a fair assumption, I admit – I did intend to, but somehow when it came to it I just knew it wasn't right. So I gave him his _congé_."

"He must have been upset. He seemed very smitten with you."

"He was a bit, but as I said, he's actually quite shallow. I understand that he's started dating one of the beauty therapists in the spa now." She drew a deep breath to steady herself. "Anyway, it means the coast is now clear for me to make a new start somewhere else."

"But why do you need to? I don't understand." He tried to keep the desperation from his voice but feared he had not entirely succeeded. "I don't want you to go, Camille."

She turned to face him, carefully controlling her breathing. "Look, Richard, this isn't easy to say. We have had our ups and our downs, you and I, but I think the relationship has probably come as far as it can go. You pretend you don't have feelings, but I know that's not the case. I don't know who she is, this Rachel of yours, but she's clearly very important to you and so I think it's probably best for both of us if we go our separate ways." _Please, please don't let me cry, I must maintain my pride._

His heart had started to race, he hardly heard what she was saying. _She has broken up with Jean-Pierre!_ He came back to earth with a sudden jolt. That name! That name he had tried so hard to forget.

"_Rachel! _How on earth do you know about Rachel?" If he had been lost before, he was now totally bewildered, staring at her goggle-eyed.

"When you were ill … you were delirious … you kept talking about her."

He paled. "What … er … what _exactly_ did I say?" he asked nervously.

"I can't really remember _exactly_. You seemed to be begging her not to do something and apologising … it didn't sound like you at all. Anyway, what does it matter?"

"_Of course_ it matters! Rachel was a total disaster. I've spent more than twenty years trying to forget about her! And – as you see – not entirely succeeding …"

"So who was she?"

"Well, um, she was someone I met … after university. I don't know how it happened really … we just sort of drifted into it. We weren't suited at all …"

"I expect you were on the rebound from Sasha?" she offered helpfully.

"I suppose so. To be honest, I don't really remember having much say in it – she was determined right from the start."

"Well, she must have seen something special in you."

"Not really, she just had a thing about men in uniform, I think. She was quite … demanding. Needless to say, it didn't end well. I believe she married a fireman in the end and had four children. I expect it was the extending ladders that did it."

Camille bit back a smile. "So what were you begging her not to do?"

He stiffened immediately. "I'm not going to discuss that" he said firmly. He was clearly not prepared to say any more on the subject.

Silence descended.

"So …"

"So …?"

She thought for a minute. "Richard, I don't see that this changes anything really. I'm glad that you haven't been nursing a broken heart all these years of course, but I think I still need to leave. I … I don't think I can go on working with you any longer."

He gulped. "I see" he said in a small voice.

"Well, that's just the problem – I don't think you do!" She stepped right up close to him and placed her hand on his heart. He jumped as if he'd been bitten. "You see? I can feel your heart hammering away – but there's no response, is there, Richard? You're frozen like a block of ice, hidden behind those walls of yours. I thought I could batter them down, given time – and now and then I think I made a bit of progress. But it's no good, they're too high and I can't go on like this, without any real hope."

He felt his whole foundations rocking. "Was … was that what your mother meant? She said … she said no woman would wait for ever. I didn't understand … I _never_ understand."

"Yes, that was what she meant."

"She hates me, your mother."

"No she doesn't. She just doesn't want me to get hurt like _she_ was. She doesn't think you could make me happy. Do _you_ think you could make me happy, Richard?"

His head was spinning so fast he felt giddy.

"I … I don't know. I'm not sure I'm capable of making _any_ woman happy. You know … I never seem to say or do the right thing …"

"Well, if you don't practise, you'll never get any better. But the big question is, do you want to try? Or shall we just draw a line under the whole thing?"

"No! I mean yes! Yes, I do want to try. It's just that … I'm no good at these sort of things … Rachel was … always disappointed." He swallowed hard and looked down at the floor. "I'm afraid you would be too."

"What do you want? Marks out of ten? You have to work at relationships, Richard – they don't always come naturally. They're not always great at the beginning, but if you really care about someone then it's worth persevering. If everyone gave up every time things didn't work out quite perfectly, mankind would be in a sorry state. Come here!"

She caught his pyjama jacket and pulled him towards her. She could feel his heart still thumping loudly.

"Tachycardia!" he gasped.

She was amused. It was one of the most endearing things about him, this quasi innocence and complete lack of confidence when it came to matters of emotion – such a contrast to the way he ran his professional life. It was as if he were two different people.

"More like over-excitement" she said with mock-severity. "You'd better have some medicine."

And she took his face in her hands, drew him gently towards her and kissed him.

Richard completely forgot to breathe. _What do I do with my hands?_

They broke after a while and she slipped her arms around his neck. "You have a _very_ bad case of tachycardia, Inspector. I think you need a stronger dose."

The second kiss was longer and deeper and suddenly he found that it was the most natural thing in the world to slide his arms round Camille and hold her close. When he finally released her she laid her hands against his chest thoughtfully. _I need to take this gently. This man is seriously inexperienced._

"You know, I find these pyjamas incredibly sexy but I think we'd do better without them. " And she began slowly to undo the buttons. The jacket slid soundlessly to the floor. Her fingertips drifted exquisitely over the contours of his chest and along his spine. She smiled as she felt the shudders which were convulsing his body; the walls were crumbling. Richard's pulse rate went off the end of the scale.

She pushed him gently towards the bed. For a moment, he appeared to resist her. "What's the matter, Richard? Don't you want to?"

"Of course I do. It's just that … well, Rachel …"

"What about Rachel?"

"She … she said I was no good at it." Suddenly it all came out in a rush. "Once or twice I … er … well, I _couldn't_ … you know. She didn't take it well. In fact when we broke up she made a point of telling everyone how useless I was, though I begged her not to."

"What a bitch. Well, after tonight, there will no more talk of Rachel. The only thing wrong with you, Richard Poole, is that you just haven't found the right woman – until now. Don't worry, I'll help you and it will be fine, I promise. You're going to enjoy this – and so am I!"

* * *

><p>Good morning, Catherine! The commissioner called a cheery greeting. "I was hoping for a quiet word with Camille – is she here?"<p>

Catherine motioned him to a seat and slipped in opposite him, setting a cup of coffee in front of him. "No, she's not, Selwyn. I saw her yesterday evening when she was setting off to explain to Richard about leaving the island, and I haven't seen or heard from her since. I went round to her apartment but there's no sign of her – it looks as if she didn't come home last night." She swept some errant breadcrumbs away and sighed. "I suppose I know what that means."

"You don't sound too happy about it?"

"No … it's not as if I didn't know that she's been besotted with the wretched man for months. I did hope when Humphrey was here … and then again with Jean-Pierre, but there you are – she wouldn't have either of them. It's just that I so want her to be happy. The man _I_ chose turned out to be the wrong man for me, and I don't want her to make the same mistake."

"That's very understandable, Catherine, but are you sure the Inspector is the wrong man for Camille?"

"I just don't know, Selwyn. Most of the time he seems so cold and distant, but then every now and then I catch a look on his face when he's watching her and I wonder if maybe he does care for her after all. I don't dislike him, actually, and I admit he's brilliant at what he does, but all he's ever done since he first set foot on this island is moan and wish he was back in England."

"And yet," mused the Commissioner, "when he came back from Hong Kong and had the opportunity of a posting back to the UK, and a promotion to boot – in fact the job that Detective _Chief _Inspector Goodman took – he turned it down, insisting that he wanted to return to Saint-Marie. I must say, I wondered at the time whether your daughter might have had a role to play in that decision."

Catherine brightened. "Is that really true, Selwyn? I didn't know – and I don't think Camille does either. Well, that does put a different complexion on things. If that is the case, then he has gone up in my estimation. Perhaps I am worrying unnecessarily – they do say that opposites attract, don't they, and there can surely not ever have been a couple more diametrically opposed than these two!"

He drained his cup. "Well, let's hope you will finally get the grandchildren you have been longing for, Catherine!"

She beamed at the thought. "But what about you, Selwyn? Is this not against the rules?"

"Had this been the Met, then yes, possibly. But here on Saint-Marie _I_ make the rules – it's one of the more satisfying and convenient aspects of my position. So provided the proper and efficient running of the police department isn't adversely affected, I see no reason why I should object. And knowing the good Inspector as I do, I am quite confident that there will be a total absence of what one might term hanky-panky during working hours. So you may be easy on that front."

He got up to leave, and Catherine resigned herself to the inevitable.

* * *

><p>Richard slowly came to as the first rays of sunlight dappled the floor of the shack. He sighed and stretched luxuriously, barely conscious that for the first time since childhood he was naked in bed. His body was suffused with a tremendous feeling of well-being; it was as if the huge weight that he had carried for so many years had slipped from his shoulders. Waves of emotion flowed through him as he remembered, with incredulity, the events of the night – a night such as he had never spent before and had never in his wildest dreams expected to experience.<p>

Camille had been as good as her word – leading him gently down the paths of pleasure and delight which led to the utterly overwhelming explosion of passion with which the night had culminated.

"Did you hear that crash?" she had whispered. "That was the final rampart falling." And she had held him in her arms until he finally fell into the innocent and untroubled sleep of his childhood.

Camille! He reached across to stroke once more the magnificent satin curve of her hip, only to feel – nothing. He sat up sharply in the semi-dark of the shuttered room. There was no doubt about it – the other side of the bed was empty and cold: she had gone. Anguish flooded his whole being. Of course. _How could I have been so stupid as to think this was more than just a one-off act of kindness? What would a woman like her really want with a poor specimen like me, after all? That was it. Remember it, treasure it, Poole, for there will be no more. _

With a silent howl he turned and buried his face in her pillow, desperately searching for a last, lingering scent of her. And then the tears came, and the blackness.

* * *

><p>"Richard! <em>Richard!<em> What's the matter?"

"Go away" he mumbled, but the voice was insistent. "Richard!"

He raised his head a couple of inches from the pillow and turned a bleary eye on his tormentor. A sudden, incredulous joy engulfed him.

"Camille! Camille, you've come back!"

"I've only been for a swim! I woke up really early. It was a lovely moonlit night, so I went for a dip and watched the sun rise."

"Like _that?_" He indicated her nakedness.

"Yes, why not? Haven't you heard of skinny-dipping? It's only 5 o'clock, there's no-one around for miles. And I've spent ages getting rid of every last grain of sand!"

"I thought … I was afraid … you had left."

"Without my clothes? Look, they're on the floor, where we dropped them last night." She came and knelt on the bed.

Now he felt embarrassed. He had been so overcome with the thought that he had lost her, that he had failed to carry out even the most basic of detective procedures. She smiled tenderly at him and smoothed his face.

"I … I thought … well, I know I'm too old for you and not very experienced …"

She interrupted his stammering explanation. "Listen, Richard. Yes, I've been out with men who are younger and more experienced and for that matter have more hair than you, but no-one has ever made me feel like you do. I love that you were so upset, but I promise I'll never leave you, unless you want me to."

She slipped back into bed and snuggled up to him again. He kissed her frenziedly, overjoyed that paradise had been restored. He licked his lips appreciatively.

"You taste salty! I think it must be an aphrodisiac."

"What did you have in mind, Inspector?"

"Well, you told me I had to practise …" She gave a squeal and they disappeared under the sheet for some considerable time.

Much later, as they lay content in each other's arms, they mused on how their relationship had started.

"You always told me I should sleep naked. I didn't know this was what you meant!"

She giggled. "I didn't, not back then. That was when you were rude and pompous and arrogant and generally unbelievably annoying!"

"Was I really that bad?"

"Worse!"

"I never meant to be." He sounded contrite. "But everything was so strange."

"I know. It took us a while to figure it out, but we eventually realised it was all bluster, a way of covering up your insecurities. And we saw that you were much nicer underneath, so we forgave you."

"I was so lucky to find such a wonderful team. Where would I have been without you all?"

"On the next plane back to London, I imagine." Her fingers roamed gently over his chest, as she asked quietly "Do you love me, Richard?"

Even now, it was hard for him to say the words. "Well, you know what I always say: when everything else has been disproved, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." She laughed and he leaned over and kissed her. "So I suppose the answer must be yes."

He cleared his throat nervously.

"I want to ask you, while I still have the nerve. Will you marry me, Camille, and spend the rest of your life with me? I know I don't have much to offer but …" He lifted his eyes to meet her gaze and was relieved to see that she was smiling at him.

"Oh Richard, it's so tempting to say yes … but I'm not going to … not yet." She saw his face fall and added quickly "It's not that I don't love you: of course I do. But marriage is such a big thing. It's more than having great sex, it's companionship, it's sharing your whole life, it's being together all day and every day. I'm not sure that you're ready for that yet, Richard."

He tried to protest but she silenced him with a finger on his lips. "You've spent all your life alone, you value your own company. How are you going to manage with me around all the time? You're obsessively tidy. I'm not particularly untidy but I'm not in the same league as you: can you cope with having my things scattered around, my washing drying in the bathroom? I do believe we have a future together, Richard, but we have to take it slowly and not rush into marriage too quickly. I couldn't bear it if we ended up just like my parents did."

"It's ironic, isn't it?" he commented "For the first time ever, I'm the one trying to rush ahead and you're the one urging caution. I suppose you're right – you usually are." He heaved a deep sigh.

"But that doesn't mean that things have to stay as they are. I'll move in here for a trial period and see how we get on. I'll make sure you have some time to yourself – I have my own friends to see, after all. Then, if you still feel the same in – say – three months' time, ask me again, and I promise I won't say no."

Three months – that would take them to the end of the year. New Year's Eve.

He would make a note in his diary.


End file.
